Charlotte Makes Photos

I don’t know what I expected from 2022, but the year began in Ottawa in a most unpleasant way. At least it did for those of us who live Downtown and in Centretown.

Beginning at the end of January, a right-wing driven protest movement against COVID measures, but mostly against the Prime Minister, began to set up an occupation in the city.

I won’t recount the whole thing (the link above has plenty of content) and those of us who live downtown and Centretown are used to protests of all stripes and sizes. It’s part of living in a capital city that we accept as a part of things. We’ll even join or jeer, depending on our where our sympathies lie.

This was different.

As the days wore on, they began setting up infrastructure. At first they’d rove around stores without masks and generally bothering us who were masked while out. Then they’d step up their harassment.

At the end of the first week, Kathleen and I were nervous wrecks. It didn’t feel safe outside and it was especially the “younger” occupiers who were making us all feel unsafe. To make matters worse, our belief that police officers were broadly sympathetic to the movement were confirmed as watched on as many of the police were supporting the actions of our occupiers.

Less direct, but just as worrisome, it quickly became clear that were were going to be left to our own devices, the contempt for our neighbourhoods at the municipal and provincial levels on full display.

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I was not yet formally out, but was presenting at home daily for almost three years, claiming that it was just an expression of my gender fluidity. It was a gossamer-thin cover story, to be sure, but it was very much an emotional safety blanket for someone still too afraid to come out.¹

One thing I came to know as I would go out to pick up groceries and run errands was that – just as it had been growing up – they knew they were picking up something about me they didn’t like, but didn’t quite know which slurs or harassment approach they wanted to take with me, so it was a bit of a gamble as to which they’d start with.

It was usually “fag”, followed by something about my mask.

I began to fear that it was only a matter of time before they figured it out and then I’d really be in some trouble.

By the beginning of the second week, we felt the need to leave. It felt too unsafe and I was beginning to really lose it. After Kathleen spoke with her mom in Halifax, she offered us the space to spend time with her. We purchased plane tickets for two days afterward and headed east, intending to return once things had calmed down.

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The first thing I remember from the the first two days was that flying with cats is not ideal and would not do it again once we were home. These cats don’t travel well. I was certain that their howls easily overpowered the cabin noise.

The second thing I remember is that it took days for the sound of honking horns to stop echoing in my mind. It would take a while for me to not immediately associate any slightly longer honking as the fash.

The third thing I remember from the walk(s) on the two days above is that there were more than enough of the convoy types skulking around Cole Harbour/Dartmouth and we did hear honking along the Forest Hills Parkway and saw a lifted truck with the usual assortment of “Fuck Trudeau” flags accompanied by signs once reserved for the fever dreams of the red yarn and peg board set.

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1. As I would frequently put it to my therapist, I won’t jump into the pool unless I know I can pull myself out of it. Edging closer to coming out while having something to maintain plausible deniability if things got too challenging felt like making sure I always had one of those little ladders. It’s the main contribution my personality made toward keeping me closeted for nearly 40 years. ↩︎